The Magic Kingdom Affair
by GM
Summary: Napoleon and Illya track a suspect to -- Disneyland!


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Dedicated to Walt --

My hero --

Thanks -- 

for forty-five wonderful years of adventure . . . and many other lands . . . 

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THE _MAGIC KINGDOM_ AFFAIR

By

GM

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I

__

"This is a real Mickey Mouse assignment '

The persistent throb pounded a regimental march inside his head. The uniform beat resonated in a steady pattern and echoed through his slumber. Insolent bleeps endured with a stubborn tenacity which refused to be ignored. Napoleon Solo savored the last, sweet vestiges of sleep as he achieved that final stage of wakefulness, back in a real world, yet he remained relaxed, eyes closed. Consciousness found him but he refused to acknowledge it and resolutely ignored the bleat that nagged him.

Tentatively he opened a wary eye and silently observed his not-too-alert partner, as Illya Kuryakin groped for the two suit jackets folded on the empty aisle seat.

"Your pocket or mine?" he wondered with a yawn.

"Yours," Illya responded with a stifled yawn of his own as he passed the expensive Harris tweed over to his partner.

"Cover me, would you?" Solo requested as he found the communicator and clicked open the channel.

Kuryakin quickly retrieved a section of a newspaper strewn on the empty seat and spread the paper apart to shield Solo. After years of experience at covert communications it was a smooth, easy example of teamwork. The newspaper scheme was so much simpler -- avoiding curious observers and explanations as to why a grown man would have a meaningful conversation with a thin silver pen.

"Solo here," the dark haired, senior agent softly reported.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Solo," came the crisp and business-like British voice of their superior.

Alexander Waverly was Number One Section One, the leader of operations for UNCLE in North and South America and other parts of the globe. From the bright, somewhat wry tone, he probably realized he'd caught his two agents literally asleep after a long assignment.

Solo exchanged an exasperated glance with his partner. "Not at all, sir," he lied smoothly. "We're Just on our way back to LA."

"Very good, Mr. Solo. When you arrive in Los Angeles, you and Mr. Kuryakin are to contact the local office chief there. A -- ah -- Mr. Grey Henriks. A little something has come up."

"Something always come up, " Kuryakin muttered darkly.

If Waverly caught the derogatory comment he made no mention of it. Nor did he comment on Solo's unenthusiastic response as the agent acknowledged the instructions and signed out.

Solo replaced the pen communicator in his jacket pocket and looked over to his companion. "Welcome home, Mr. Kuryakin," he quipped sarcastically.

***

They were returning from a mission in Buenos Aires which had gone sour. A disillusioning assignment which had resulted in the deaths of several UNCLE agents and innocent civilians. An UNCLE agent had defected and wrought destruction on the Argentina HQ, and Solo and Kuryakin had emerged relatively intact, but with a few physical and emotional scars. 

"Where could he be going? A ball game perhaps?"

"I don't think the Angels are in town."

"Angels?"

"The ball team here in Anaheim."

"Ah."

Solo sighed, then silently chided himself, he'd have to stop all these weary sighs. He wiped the beads of sweat from his face while longing to shrug out of his expensive cotton shirt. This was not a day to be dressed to the nines. In fact, this weather suggested as few clothes as possible and a lot of beach time. A number of nearby cars with surfboards and other beach equipment attested to the majority of the population wishing the same thing. 

The top was down on the '_nondescript' _and _'inconspicuous' _red Mustang convertible, so they could take complete advantage of the warm California rays. It was a humid, smoggy, eighty-eight degrees in Orange County and morning traffic on the Santa Ana freeway was bumper-to-bumper, crawling along at about twenty-five MPH. That was, when it crawled along at all.

The smog and diesel fumes choked what little air there was in the atmosphere, but the steady breeze managed to make the heat and cloying air tolerable. The snappy tune on the radio helped brighten the day for the handsome men in the racy red convertible. They attracted a considerable amount of flirtatious glances from the female contingent of freeway commuters, and proved that there was a good side to everything, even the traffic jams! The Agents had long ago learned to adhere to STANDARD SOLO RULE NUMBER FOUR: always rent a sporty convertible when on assignment. Rule Four-A: make it red whenever possible to attract the maximum amount of attention from women!

Atypical of most New Yorkers, Solo felt a kindred spirit to California. As the song said: _'the West Coast had the sunshine',_ along with the surf, the free and easy lifestyle, and the girls. If he harbored any deep, repressed fantasy or secret dream buried beneath the layers of responsibility and conservatism, it was to be a California drop out. The hidden desire to be a barefoot, stereotypical West Coaster was most common on days like this, when the sun baked a body worn out and hurt -- a mind disillusioned and weary.

That was, if he had any secret fantasies. Like so many other childish fabrications, it was a dreamy wisp of unreality that would never materialize. A form of escapism, shelved alongside the knights, damsels, and dragons of his formative years that would never breath with life. All a fantasy. And UNCLE agents were much too rooted in reality to have such illusions.

He glanced over to his companion and suppressed a grin. Even the sober Kuryakin had slipped into the ambiance of Southern California. He wore a casual polo shirt under a light windbreaker, and had applied liberal doses of sun tan lotion.

"This is a Coppertone moment." Solo smeared sun tan lotion on his arms, then dabbed some on his partner's nose. "Wouldn't want you to burn that fair skin, Illya."

Kuryakin nervously removed the lotion bottle from the driver's hands and advised his partner keep his attention on the hectic traffic, not on trivialities. Returning to the map he focused on their mission. "Maybe Movieland Wax museum."

"We're past that turnoff," Solo offered with a smile.

They were on a milk run of an assignment. They were to follow an international gunrunner named Marty and nab him when and if he made contact to sell a shipment of arms. The local UNCLE agent assigned to the case had wracked up a car, and his person, and the locals were short handed. Solo and Kuryakin had conveniently been given the low priority mission. The locals were quite touchy about their other important cases, and weren't about to be aced out by the two New York hotshots. So, here they were, for the second uneventful day, on the trail of a gun dealer and going nowhere. On the bright side, there was no risk they would lose their quarry in this traffic.

Yesterday they had toured the Hollywood Hills, the Walk of Fame on Hollywood Boulevard, and spent the evening on a stroll of Santa Monica beach. Kuryakin had been most put out when they returned to the hotel with nothing more to show for their efforts than a slight sunburn and sand in their shoes. 

As a rule neither of them liked slow assignments. They were dull and blunted their skills and reflexes. The incisive minds, as well as the finely toned bodies needed exercise and this assignment promised not to tax either. For once, the two crack agents really didn't mind. Though Kuryakin was vociferous with complaints, Solo knew the taciturn Russian was as glad of the respite as he was. Right now he could handle a bland mission. He didn't feel emotionally or physically prepared for a full-scale encounter with anything more serious than sunburn, and the greatest conspiracy he wanted to face would be a Girl Scout troop selling cookies.

As an idiosyncrasy of boredom, Kuryakin had hauled out every available street map and studied it with the intent of a field marshal. He produced a long succession of speculations of where Marty might take them and where the meet might be. It was a quirk of the dedicated Russian's abhorrence of doldrums. 

Though the studiousness amused Solo, Illya would not be cowed. He had no patience with nowhere missions, though this time he refrained from too many acerbic comments. The insignificant assignment had eased some of the tension they both harbored. Solo had visibly relaxed over the last day; the depression and tautness had lessened. The warm sun and insolent task ebbed some of the bitterness and melted away the strain.

Even to himself, Kuryakin vaguely admitted it was nice to have an easy assignment now and again. He'd even tolerated the flashy sports car without his usual caustic comments, knowing Solo could no sooner pass up a red convertible than he could restrain from flirting with a pretty woman. He could be tedious at times, but Napoleon Solo was never a dull companion. Kuryakin peered over his reading glasses to survey the freeway. Despite the congested thoroughfare they had made rapid inroads.

"Knott's Berry Farm?" he wondered and glanced at his partner.

Solo shook his head. "We passed that too."

Kuryakin again consulted the map, his face puzzled. Suddenly he jerked his head up, a determined expression on his face. "Of course. Disneyland!" 

"Not Disneyland!" Solo countered sourly.

Illya pushed the glasses down again and quizzically appraised the senior agent. "Why not?"

Solo opened his mouth, but the words were blocked by his own perplexity. Instinctive repulsion had caused him to blurt out his denial, while logic told him his reaction was absurd. An amusement park was not off limits to criminals, gunrunners, or international spies. Yet, as sentimental as it seemed, he was uncomfortable with the thought of a meet at Disneyland. His mind balked at the idea of a deal for a large shipment of lethal arms to a terrorist group going down at a children's park. It was an instinctively chivalrous, inbred aversion to bringing their sometimes seamy, deadly business into the innocent world of women and children.

Though he considered himself progressive and enlightened, Solo still held deeply rooted codes of chivalry. Yet, how could he explain it all to Illya when he didn't even understand it himself? His instincts called out to protect Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Disneyland -- protect the childhood fantasies in them all -- even hardened UNCLE agents. 

"Ah, well, -- nevermind," he finally commented lamely to his expectant colleague.

From the quizzical look he received, he knew Kuryakin's insatiable curiosity had been aroused. Another slip and he'd spend the next ninety-nine years being ribbed for his sentimentality.

They trailed the white sedan off the Harbor Blvd. exit and into the traffic lane that flowed directly into Disneyland's entrance. Solo still strove to reconcile the evidence. Maybe the gunrunner would not actually go into the park. Maybe the meet was in the parking lot?

"What did you say, Napoleon?"

Solo cleared his throat. "I said, we'll need some money for the parking."

Kuryakin grimaced and mumbled some descriptive complaints as he drew out his wallet. It had not gone unnoticed that the pay-window was on his side of the car. They were only a few cars behind Marty's white sedan as they wound through the parking lot and were ushered into a slot. The gunrunner exited his car and proceeded toward the park entrance with two UNCLE agents in tow.

"Maybe he just wants to see Disneyland," Solo offered.

"Not likely, Napoleon," the blond operative scoffed.

Solo's retort was sarcastic. "Even world leaders try to come here, comrade." He smirked. "Or try to." Tapping the Russian's shoulder, he assured, "Don't worry, I won't tell them your from the USSR."

"I don't know what the fuss is about anyway," he groused with irritation. 

The Russian scowled as he watched their target carefully. Marty could meet anyone in this crush. True to his suspicions, soon they were swept into the massive crowd and jostled by children on the loose, strollers, and camera-wielding tourists.

"Stay in line behind him," Solo suggested as he drifted away with the practiced ease of a man used to slipping out of tight spots. "I'll watch him from the side."

"He's in line to buy a ticket!"

"Then you'll have to buy two," Solo declared and flashed a winning smile then melded into the crowd. 

Solo turned away before he could catch the scowl of disapproval from Kuryakin. It continually amazed the Russian how Solo managed to evaporate just when it was time to pay the piper. The dapper agent never seemed to want for anything -- from outrageous dinners at Sardi's, to Saville Row suits, Gucci ties, and expensive sports cars. Yet the self-styled playboy agent never had two quarters to rub together. If it wasn't covered on the expense account or credit card, Solo was helpless. And Napoleon called him cheap!

Two sets of trained eyes followed Marty and at no time did the dealer make any unusual contacts. From the ticket booth, to the turn-style, Marty was just like every other tourist. And so it was that when the international gunrunner walked through the entrance, two of the UNCLE's top agents departed Southern California and tailed their quarry into the Magic Kingdom.

Children were filled with awe and chattered with excited, ecstatic, light-speed wonder. Flowers scented the air, music wafted from concealed speakers, and the atmosphere glittered and sparked with unrestrained happiness. A surrealistic aura of magic pervaded the immediate world, as if enchanted pixie dust had been sprinkled into everyone's eyes when they passed through the gate.

Adults were not immune to the touch of the magic wand. Smiles were spontaneous impulses and laughter resounded around them. Camera shutters snapped like machine-gun fire as the life-size Disney characters appeared. Exhilaration and joy were tangible spectres that hovered above the visitors like invisible fairy Godmothers and almost anything seemed believable.

Solo realized he'd been instantly snagged by the sentimentality in the air, and knew he'd have to guard himself, else his astute partner would take notice. He tugged at the Nikon around the Russian's neck. A super-telephoto lens attachment would bring out any detail they might need in their surveillance.

"Don't lose him."

"I won't," Illya assured as he snapped a few experimental photos of the gun dealer. Marty had paused under a stone arch and was intent on a bronze plaque set into the rock.

**__**

"Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy," Solo read aloud and couldn't keep the light trace of wonder from his voice.

Kuryakin nudged him in the back. "Come on, Peter Pan."

Solo scowled, but fleetingly, for the first time in many years,wished there really could be a fabled Neverland. Main Street USA as a replica of some stereotypical turn-of-the-century middle-America town. It was a nostalgic look at an era gone by in small town USA, complete with the old street lamps, the cigar store Indian, and an old movie house with a lighted marquee.

"You know, I used to try and spend every Saturday at a theater much like that one," Solo pointed out as they crossed the street.

Kuryakin squinted into the sun. "Steamboat Willie," he read aloud. "And William Shart."

"William S. Hart," Solo corrected as they stepped into the center plaza circle. "A cowboy star."

A marching band had stepped in the circle and Marty paused to hear them. Solo waited near a flagpole, surrounded by iron cannons that stood guard at the rim of the flowered park. Kuryakin had paused to buy a box of popcorn.

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

Illya nearly choked on the fistful of kernels in his mouth. "What?"

"The song they're playing. It's from Mary Poppins."

Illya shook his head with mock gravity. "I always' knew it, Napoleon. You never grew up."

The handsome counterinsurgent agent felt his face redden in a blush and silently vowed that in future he would not let Illya's clever barbs embarrass him. "I once dated a film student," he defended smoothly.

Kuryakin smirked with devilish amusement. "I'm sure this will be a most entertaining day. Now, enough of your nostalgic stroll down memory lane, Napoleon. Our target is on the move."

Marty had walked across the street and made a sudden beeline with a specific destination in mind. The UNCLE agents quickened their pace.

"This is it," Illya declared, suppressed excitement in his voice. His muscles were tensed and ready for action, the adrenaline flow coursed through his veins and prepared him for instant call to duty. Marty plowed through a small crowd where some commotion on the street corner held everyone's attention. Marty snapped several pictures, and with face aglow, charged forward to enthusiastically shake hands with Mickey Mouse.

Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo exchanged deadpan, carefully controlled glances and dared each other to be the first to crack. At the same instant, they shook their heads as blue eyes and hazel eyes reflected the same chagrined message. After struggling through the packed crowd around the famous mouse, they followed Marty into a nearby locker area and watched as the gun runner deposited a .38 special. Solo had opened a nearby locker and quickly and carefully slipped out of his tie, jacket and shoulder holster with the Walther P-38 it contained. After rolling up his sleeves he held out a hand to his partner. "I think it's a prudent idea."

Kuryakin nodded curtly and slipped off his windbreaker and holster. It made good sense in a place like Disneyland. They could ill afford a wild shoot out here. It would be a disaster with so many bystanders, not to mention the terrible blow to their reputations. The omniscient black/gold UNCLE cards could open almost any door anywhere in the world, but the bad publicity of a gun battle in the world famous Disneyland would be unforgivable. Their careers would be over before they could say Donald Duck.

They kept a tight surveillance as they trailed Marty along the bustling sidewalk. The pace was leisurely as Marty window shopped along the colorful and cleverly decorated displays of the shops. Marty stopped in front of one huge window for some time, then turned into the large store. Napoleon and Illya were right behind.

The store was stuffed with everything imaginable of Disney memorabilia, from plastic statues of Mickey, stuffed Donalds, to blown glass creations worth hundreds of dollars. Marty gravitated to a counter strewn with a wide assortment of T-shirts, sweatshirts, socks, hats, and even sweatbands. Marty selected one of the garments and started toward a back dressing room.

Kuryakin's mouth tugged with a mischievous smile as he pulled a T-shirt from the stack and shoved it into Solo's hands.

"Follow him to the dressing rooms."

"Me?" Solo wondered incredulously even as Kuryakin pushed him in the correct direction.

"Yes, I've got the camera. Hurry up!" he urged and relinquished any attempt to hide his delight at Solo's discomfiture. "I'll even pay for it!"

"You bet you will," solo threatened darkly with evil intent as he disappeared in the back.

Moments later Marty emerged from the dressing room with a T-shirt that displayed the Disneyland castle. Solo was only a moment behind with a colorful shirt emblazoned with Mickey Mouse, and Kuryakin gladly paid for the purchase. 

"I'll get you for this, Smiley," Solo vowed quietly.

Illya shrugged, unimpressed. "What's wrong, Napoleon? Don't you appreciate the appropriateness of your attire? After all, this is just a Mickey Mouse assignment!"

****

II

__

"Life is a real Jungle Cruise."

Illya Kuryakin sighed in exaggerated self-pity and wiped the sweat from his face as he brushed aside a lock of blond shag. He chafed under the yoke of inactivity, and at the moment that yoke seemed quite heavy. There was a commotion in the line behind him and he turned to see his partner balance two drinks and attempt to negotiate a path through the maze of parents and children who clogged the trail. The adept Solo managed to accomplish the obstacle course without spilling a drop.

"Here you go, Livingston," Solo announced as he proffered a cup to Illya. "Try a little Jungle Juice, compliments of, ah --" he paused as he looked over his shoulder "-- of Zanzi-bar."

Kuryakin scowled as he took possession of the drink. "This place is getting to you, Napoleon. Your jokes are worse than ever." He carefully sniffed the liquid and wrinkled his nose with suspicion. "What is this?"

"I told you, Jungle Juice," Solo repeated and tentatively sipped the drink. He smacked his lips and nodded in approval. "Not bad. Kind of refreshing. And it is cold!" he encouraged as he noted Kuryakin's continued reluctance. "Go on. It's got papaya, orange -- something else -- pineapple, maybe."

"No wonder you love this place, Napoleon, "Everything has such corny names."

Solo made a sour face. "I might take that personally if I were the sensitive sort." He scanned the line ahead of them and spotted the British gunrunner they had trailed for the past few hours. "I see our mouse hasn't evaded the cats yet."

"Yes, he seems fond of the jungle. He's snapped a dozen pictures of nothing remotely interesting."

Kuryakin spared their target a quick glance, then frowned as he surveyed this little corner of the world known as Adventureland. They stood in line for one of the more popular attractions, the Jungle Cruise, and slowly wound their way around the bamboo rails toward a boat dock. Under the straw canopy the humidity was trapped like steam from a covered pot, the heat accentuated from the lack of circulation and press of bodies.

A little boy of some undetermined age bumped into his leg and spilled soda on his black loafers. Illya grimaced in silence. They had managed to survive the ordeals of the majority of rides in Tomorrowland and several of the attractions in Adventure land. Marty had made no contact with anyone -- of that both skilled agents were positive -- and there seemed to be no pattern to the dealer's course through the park. Illya wondered what the man was up to. Perhaps they'd been spotted and Marty was on a wild goose chase until he could lose them and safely make his contact. No matter, they had to stick close. Their orders were to follow the man until he made his contact, even if it took all week.

Of course, there was always the possibility Marty was there only as a tourist, but it seemed too absurd to Kuryakin's pragmatic mind and his natural cynicism crushed the errant theory each time it cropped up. It seemed too remote that an international criminal would come to _'relive fond memories of the past'_ as the welcome plaque at the front Disneyland stated. A global gun runner, or world-class spies, could not afford sentimentality, or nostalgia, and that was just what a place like Disneyland encouraged -- no -- cultivated -- breeded. Sentimentality.

Kuryakin had already sensed the nostalgic morass of Disneyland had smote the susceptible Napoleon. The subtle signs and clues which emanated from his partner indicated Solo loved this place. Underneath the sabre-edged, capable, deadly professionalism of the secret agent, Solo was really a romantic at heart. As partner/companion/friend, it was Kuryakin's job to guard against those blind spots and he saw his work cut out for him today. He could clearly read the abstruse nuances in the senior agent who had already mellowed from the easy atmosphere of the park.

Even worse, Illya knew such sentimentalism was contagious because even after his continual denials to Napoleon, he realized he actually enjoyed this assignment. At least a little. As they had strolled the walkways and lanes of the Magic Kingdom he felt that sharp edge of tension he'd harbored for days blunted. Stress was unexplainably stripped away. Though the sidewalks were jumbled with people and the day was hot, most or the visitors seemed genuinely delighted with their vacation. Mass happiness was an alien concept to the Russian and he was naturally suspicious of it. He had to continually remind himself, and Solo, that they were on the job, on duty. They must not slacken defenses or lose that edge of wariness that kept them on their toes and frequently kept them alive. If they should suddenly be called into action they would need every bit of skill and training they possessed to keep a simple surveillance from becoming an ugly disaster. One of an agent's worst nightmares was deadly action in public places. There was no control of the situation and once an agent lost control he just about lost the battle.

He looked around at the crowd of people and reminded himself of all the things he didn't like about this assignment. He didn't have to look far for irritations. "This isn't anything like Marrakech," he observed darkly as he gulped down the last of his juice. "The architecture is all wrong. And in Zanzibar the lanes -- "

"That's because this isn't Zanzibar, or Marrakech, or even Casablanca," Solo interrupted in a low, reasonable tone. "This is Anaheim, California."

"But they try to make you think its Marrakech."

"Probably none of these tourists have ever been to Morocco, Illya. They wouldn't know the difference between Zanzibar and Cairo."

Kuryakin was obstinate. "We know the difference. We've been to all of them."

"Yes, and including Anaheim, we've been everywhere, my friend."

"You're so jaded, Napoleon."

"Me?" solo exclaimed indignantly. "You're the one trying to compare Disneyland with Marrakech. Are you trying to be difficult?"

Illya's scowl deepened. "You know I hate to wait. And I hate lines. And I especially hate to wait in lines."

Napoleon just shook his head and smiled.

The line moved up and it looked like they would actually find space on the next boat, but the line was halted just in front or the gunrunner. They were forced to wait for the next boat. Illya scowled and sighed dramatically. "Lines!" he cursed vehemently.

Solo placed a hand on his shoulder, but the sympathetic gesture was lost when the senior agent smirked. "You know what they say, old son. Life is a real Jungle Cruise!"

Kuryakin groaned and vowed to keep future complaints to himself. Obviously all he could expect from his caustic, insensitive partner were more awful puns. The next boat was their transport through the man-made jungle and they somehow endured the fake dangers, animatronic predators, corny jokes, and silly gags of the trip. Illya's favorite moment had not been part of the tour, but was when a small lad of about six adopted Napoleon's lap as the most excellent perch from which to observe the hippopotami. Solo had endured the attention with stoic resolve.

"It must be your fatherly image," Kuryakin concluded as they debarked from the ride.

"Something I've never been accused of," Solo pointed out wryly. "And you're the one everyone loves to adopt."

Marty had zeroed in on a nearby gift stand and took considerable time in the hat department.

"Not a bad idea," Solo ruminated as he observed the dealer. "Hats might help us to blend in a bit more with the crowd." He critically eyed his partner, whose fair skin had already been tinged with the start of a burn. "I'll get you something with a big brim. Remember how easily you burn," he commented rhetorically and slipped way to the store.

Marty walked away with an Australian-type outback hat. Solo returned a moment later with a jaunty canvas safari hat set at a rakish angle. He held a hand behind his back as he started back on the trail of their quarry.

"I got you the longest bill I could find." He pulled a Donald Duck hat from the bag and squeaked the yellow bill as he placed it atop Kuryakin's head. He failed miserably to contain any semblance of control as he looked at his miffed partner and laughed in delight. "What can I say? It's you, Illya."

Kuryakin grimaced as he removed the hat, his face red from embarrassment instead of a burn. "Touché', Napoleon. Consider the score evened."

"I shall," Solo accepted with a smile. The temptation was great to continue to let his partner suffer, but Solo felt magnanimous. He handed the bag to Kuryakin. "I had a back up, just on the remote chance you didn't like my first choice."

Illya pulled a sturdy, stylish pith-type helmet from the bag and gratefully placed it on his blond haystack of hair. The next little child that passed by with a bare head received an anonymous gift of a Donald Duck hat.

****

III

__

"Davy Crocket, King of the wild Frontierland!"

They had floated through the Haunted Mansion, plundered with the Pirates of the Caribbean, steamed upriver on the Mark Twain, and rumbled through Big Thunder Mountain. Twice. Now they sat at a quiet corner table at the Hungry Bear Restaurant. It was a rustic eating platform overlooking a lazy bend in the wide river, which stretched alongside. They had just about finished a relaxed lunch as they kept a covert watch on Marty, who was several tables away in the sparsely populated area. The gunrunner had acquired several more packages and now sat in contemplation of the Disneyland map.

Characteristically, Kuryakin consulted his own map in an effort to outguess Marty's next destination. "It could be Fantasyland. We haven't been there, yet. By the thickness of the page it could be Frontierland," he chattered to himself.

Napoleon Solo had his feet propped on the chair next to Kuryakin, his head rested against a wooden beam, eyes close and hat tipped over his face.

"I wonder what could be left? Where would be a good place for a meet?" Kuryakin wondered as he liberated some French fries from Solo's plate

"How about Tom Sawyer's island?" Solo suggested, pushing the hat up from his face.

Illya looked up, as if he'd forgotten he had a companion on the other side of the table. "Oh. I thought you were dozing."

"With your incessant chatter?"

Kuryakin returned to his perusal of the map. After a moment he glanced up at Solo with a trace of surprise. "Very good, Napoleon. The island has a number of secluded areas, a wilderness section, and some caves. Perfect for a meet!"

Solo sinisterly knitted his eyebrows and conspiratorially leaned forward. "Of course," he whispered loudly. "How else could Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher hide from the evil Injun Joe?"

"Indeed," Illya responded impassively. "I should have known you would be well versed in such tales."

Solo made a face of disapproval. "That's classic literature for young people!"

"It must have been career development for you."

"Well, I suppose you missed out on a few things," Solo answered wistfully, a trace of regret in his tone. "You were probably reading 'War and Peace' when I was floating down river with Huck Finn, or stalking fog shrouded London with Sherlock and Watson."

Kuryakin restrained an acerbic retort when he saw he'd lost his friend's attention. Solo stared across the tranquil water, yet his eyes were not truly focused on the small island nearby. The agent was miles away, years away, in some time pocket made of special recollections of a past and place that could never really be recaptured.

Solo leaned his chin on his hand. "Wait Disney said Disneyland would never stop growing as long as there was imagination left in the world. Maybe that's why he felt people needed a Magic Kingdom. To show there may be some shred of childhood left after all." He glanced over to his companion and seemed to be startled out of sentimental reverie as he met Kuryakin's surprised expression. He suddenly realized how trite and reminiscent his maundering sounded. He cleared his throat. "Ah -- sorry. Just thinking out loud."

Kuryakin hid a smile behind his drink cup and shoveled the last of the French fries into his mouth. Then his eyes suddenly altered from amusement to instant alertness. "Our prey is on the move, Peter Pan," he commented as he rose from the table and slung the camera around his neck.

Solo gathered the last of their trash, threw the remainder of his fries over the rail to the hungry ducks below, and rushed to catch up to his companion.

***

Observation was an art Napoleon Solo held an innate skill for and tried to hone to perfection at every opportunity, which was often. It was one of his favorite techniques in the spy business and a craft taken lightly by those with less natural aplomb than him. To Solo it was an effortless pastime he cultivated on duty or off and he considered himself a connoisseur who had raised surveillance to an art form.

Of course, his favorite subject of observation was the opposite sex, and there was no place quite like Southern California for an expert of his caliber to refine his skills. At the moment the UNCLE agent par-excellance perfected his trained eye on a number of lovely specimens who passed by the bench where he waited. A painful crunch on his left foot snapped him out of his intense study.

"Hey, that's my foot!"

"Your attention was so concentrated elsewhere I wasn't sure you'd notice," Kuryakin pointed out acidly. "A dinosaur could have strolled past and you would never have noticed."

Solo rubbed the sore toes beneath his expensive leather loafers. "Dinosaurs don't interest me. I saw Marty come off the ride, but I knew you were right behind him so I waited here," he extenuated in defense.

Kuryakin's expression clearly indicated he was skeptical.

"Well, where is he now?" Napoleon wondered, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Kuryakin nodded toward the row of gift shops which made up the rustic little township of Frontierland. "He went that-away, pardner," he drawled.

Sharp blue eyes and brown eyes followed the gun runner who perused the shops along the wooden boardwalk in the mock western motif. The puzzled expression was back on the Russian's face and had phased in and out of his countenance most of the day. For the last several hours perplexity had become a set fixture on the fair features under the helmet. It was a habitual reaction when the agile mind could not unravel a knotty problem. Illya loved to unravel mysteries, and this one proved to challenge him to the limit. 

"The gift shop?"

Any number of pithy comebacks could have come from Solo to counter the cryptic remark, but he knew exactly what Illya meant. He decided not to give in to his baser level of humor. He'd learned early in the day that he would simply have to endure this small idiosyncrasy of his partner's.

"You also thought it was the Haunted House," Solo reminded as he traded flirtatious glances with a young lady who passed by. "And that Cavalryman on Tom Sawyer's island -- you thought he was the contact."

Kuryakin shrugged in perplexity. "You have to admit it sounds logical that it's an employee. Perhaps it was one of the places we've been to and the contact didn't show."

Solo sighed. "It could be anywhere or anyone." He came to his feet and started along the walkway in the wake of their prey. "He might just be a tourist."

"Impossible!" It was an irrefutable denial. Once again he pulled the tattered little booklet from his pocket and consulted the map as they walked. "Ah-ha!" he cried as he slapped the map. "The shooting gallery!"

"Are you kidding?" Solo scoffed. 

They were forced to stop and peer into the window or a clothing store as Marty stopped on the sidewalk, apparently to ponder where he should go next.

"Maybe he's spotted us."

"Us?" Solo exclaimed in mock incredulity. "We're the least suspicious characters here. Now, if you want suspicious -- I saw this huge white rabbit who kept looking at his watch."

"Funny, Napoleon."

"He could have always slipped Mickey Mouse or Pluto a note when he shook their hands."

Illya scowled at his partner with vexation. "You are impossible," he declared. "It's going to be the shooting gallery."

"You've been watching too much John Wayne."

"I have not. What better place for a gun runner to have a meet? The shooting gallery in Frontierland."

"Whatever you say, Davy Crocket."

Kuryakin ignored his skeptical companion. Rumor had it that Marty was about to retire and this was his last big deal. It seemed the gun runner had bought a venerable estate on the old home ground of Cornwall, and wanted to retire there with his family and ill-gotten gains. As Solo had commented at the time, it took all kinds to make a horse race. And Kuryakin felt sure this horse would appreciate the irony of a meet at an old-west shooting gallery. The crafty Russian had instincts for these kinds of things.

"I told you so," he gloated when he nudged Solo in the ribs and they observed Marty cross the lane and step up to the open air shooting gallery.

"Maybe he just can't resist keeping a hand in."

Illya shook his head as they stepped up to the wooden planks and waited in line. "Keep alert, Napoleon, this is it!"

The targets were an array of animals that moved across a wide field and ranged from slow ducks in the water, to rabbits, buffalo, and the advanced targets of flying birds at the top of the range.

"You give him too much credit."

Illya was given the last rifle on the far left of the range. Solo lucked out and managed a spot just to the left of Marty where he could keep an excellent surreptitious watch on the man. He noted the arms dealer was an exceptional shot even on this children's range.

Solo took up his rifle and popped off a run of shots at the various targets and easily hit everything he aimed at, even with one eye on the gun dealer. He was aware or rapid fire to his left and when several birds he aimed at were literally shot out from under him he realized he and Illya had gone for the same targets. Typical, he pondered wryly. They were both long time bird hunters, and old habits died hard for the partners.

The light-weight weapons were toys and hardly compared to the instruments of death they used daily in their dangerous profession. When his gun was empty he noted Marty was also through and was gathering the packages in preparation to leave. Solo turned to signal his partner and was surprised to see a cluster of youngsters knotted around the last rifle station. Only a thatch of straw-colored hair identified Illya in the midst of the crowd. 

The youthful spectators were in awe of the crack UNCLE operative and expert marksman who loosed off shots like machine gun fire. The rifle spit out the lead pellets as fast as Illya aimed, and the hawk-eyed Russian leveled every bird across the range.

The rifle emptied, Illya straightened and was nonplussed to find the crowd of awed children and adults who broke into spontaneous applause. Kuryakin's face reddened in acute embarrassment and he quickly shouldered his way through the masses. He spotted Solo, who casually leaned against a rail and smiled in unabashed pleasure as he waited for Kuryakin.

A young employee congratulated the blond agent on his marksmanship and Kuryakin stammered a thanks. "By the way," he remembered, "the sight on that rifle is slightly high and a bit to the left."

Seizing Illya by the arm, Solo yanked him off the boardwalk and away from the center of attention. "Come on, Davy Crocket, King of the wild Frontierland," he smiled in rueful delight. "So much for being inconspicuous."

"It's not my fault," the blond defended.

"And you couldn't resist shooting all those birds either, I suppose? Illya, they weren't even Thrush!"

"Instinctive reflex," Kuryakin responded dryly.

"You're an exhibitionist at heart, you old show off. And you loved it," the dark, suave agent accused laughingly. "Tut, tut, Mr. Kuryakin, what would Nikita think? Making it into Disneyland and liking it, too!"

Marty lead them through Swiss Family Robinson's Treehouse as Solo explained the details of the book and Disney movie to his uninformed counterpart. They coursed through New Orleans square and ended up near the castle. They stopped for ice cream, and pictures of Marty purchasing everything from hamburgers, fries, popcycles, popcorn, and a blue Mickey Mouse balloon.

The ace UNCLE operatives took up a vantage point on the strategic high ground, the bridge of the castle, from whence they could survey Marty. They would be able to quickly tail him no matter what direction he would go in, but both knew there was only one direction left.

"Fantasyland," Illya stated firmly as he leaned against the stone rail and nibbled on his second frozen fruit bar. "King Arthur's Carousel."

White swans floated in casual grace as they coursed around the broad castle moat which ran under the bridge. An occasional dark swan swam by, as well as excited ducklings who quacked in enthusiastic chorus as they played in the waterway and snatched the odd kernel of popcorn that floated their way.

Sleeping Beauty's castle was just about everything one would expect from what the fairy tales promised, right down to the moat and the drawbridge. 

They had once been to the German castle that this model had been patterned after. This wasn't really much like the original, but it didn't shatter the illusion. This castle seemed capable of the important spells of enchantment, dank dungeons, evil witches and it's own band of intrepid knights. Solo could almost imagine Sleeping Beauty sequestered for a hundred years in one of the tower chambers.

"Excuse please."

Both agents spun around to see a young Japanese couple next to them. The woman held a small camera and proffered it toward them. "Picture please," she requested.

In flawless Japanese, Kuryakin inquired if the couple would like their picture taken in front of the castle. The newlyweds were both surprised that the stranger could fluently speak their language, and were pleased that he understood their request. They assailed him with a lengthy inquiry then handed him the instant camera and positioned themselves at the base of the bridge. Solo and Kuryakin took several paces back and the Russian buzzed off several shots as Solo kept an eye on Marty.

Mission accomplished, the husband and wife returned and took their camera. Several minutes were devoted to profuse comments on the wonderful quality of the pictures which had already developed. Then the man engaged in another lengthy conversation with the Russian. Illya shook his head, but the man persisted, much to Kuryakin's chagrin.

He looked in appeal to his silent partner. "They won't be satisfied unless they can take our pictures, too."

"I don't think we'll break the camera," Solo grinned obligingly as he stepped to the first parapet on the bridge.

Kuryakin's dour scowl articulated his disapproval. but he tagged after his partner. "How can we expect to remain anonymous if we have our pictures taken?"

"We would be more conspicuous if we fought with that nice couple over photographs, wouldn't we?" He leaned against the stone wall, one hand habitually tucked into a trouser pocket. It was an incorrigible bit of casualness that would forever mar the image of the sophisticate he liked to project.

"I don't know what you're complaining about. I'm the one with this stupid T-shirt," he groused without rancor as he leaned against his partner.

Illya folded his arms across his chest in a classic Russian pose and tipped his hat brim over his eyes. His face held the faintest trace of sour disapproval.

The spires of the castle rose majestically over their shoulders and the multicolored flags snapped and fluttered in the breeze. They were a study in contrasts, these two compatible, but oddly different men. Their divergent personalities seemed to contradict their smooth relationship and the hidden traits and ideals that made them very much alike.

Kuryakin and Solo were equally private, complex men who had combined their own impressive skills and talents through many successful years of practiced maneuvers and shared adventures. They worked like two meshed gears and complimented each other on innumerable points. They were a team.

"Say cheese, Illya," the dark-haired, taller agent suggested and nudged his partner.

The fair Russian remained blandly impassive.

Solo frowned, finger-brushed his hair back in a habit of frustration. "Smile for posterity, Illya. Pretend you're having a good time."

"Sometimes you ask too much, Napoleon," Kuryakin assured darkly. "I never have a good time when my picture is taken."

The Japanese woman called to them, and though Solo couldn't quite follow the dialog, her pantomimes clearly indicated she wished them to smile. Her husband was focused with the Nikon, and she armed with her instant camera.

"I feel like we're facing a firing squad," Illya assessed.

Solo grinned at the analogy that only Illya would come up with. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. This was a familiar game of tug-of-war, and Solo knew how to win this round.

"I know how to crack through your stubborn sense of soberness."

"I doubt it."

"Remember that incident in Salzburg last year?"

The mental image of a mission gone slightly awry produced the promised grin on Kuryakin's face, despite his effort to shut out the amusement. Clicks from the Nikon and Polaroid indicated the shutters had snapped. The partners were preserved forever in rare candids of relaxed humor. Perhaps, for once, the camera had captured the inner images of the two friends instead of the outward, deceptively benign semblance of two capable and dangerous professionals.

****

IV

__

"Have any good fantasies lately?"

They were parked on a wooden bench in the heart of Fantasyland. A young, tow-headed boy with an abundance of freckles had perched next to Illya as the agents watched Marty amble through the area. The talkative young man had just traded a valuable treasure from the magic shop for his hard earned allowance money, and currently showed off his new purchase to the two gentlemen who seemed to have nothing better to do.

The object was a small replica of the fabled sword in the stone. A secret switch on the side released the sword so it could only be pulled from the stone at the owners whim. This brought out a lengthy discourse on Arthur, Camelot, and the Crusades. The knowledgeable tidbits of information surprised Solo, until he remembered his learned colleague had a degree from Cambridge and had spent considerable time in England.

The dissertation turned into a debate on legends of the Round Table -- an area Solo happened to be well versed in. The small boy was finally reclaimed by parents and the discussion faded into oblivion due to lack of interest.

The tension and stress that had lingered from the last mission had imperceptibly dissipated over the course of the day. A kind of hypnotic lull had settled on the agents. Warm sun, exercise, and the almost game-like quality of the mission had taken a beneficial toll. Small World, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, and Peter Pan had capped off a typical day spent in the Magic Kingdom.

"This is a boring assignment," Kuryakin stated as he stifled a yawn.

The canvas hat was pushed back as Solo wiped a sheen of perspiration from his face. 'It could be worse."

"Easy assignments breed contentment," he insisted, though his easy tone belayed the advise. "Contentment breeds carelessness."

"You just can't stand to relax," Solo countered in amusement as he rested his chin in his hand.

"Hmmm."

"You are relaxed, you know. If this were a normal case you'd be bouncing around to keep tabs on Marty."

"My feet hurt," Illya responded without much spirit.

"Admit it, you've had fun today."

"You call this fun?"

"You're the one who rode the Bobsled three times."

Illya shrugged in reluctant admission. "It was -- enjoyable."

"Maybe that's why they call it the Magic Kingdom," Napoleon grinned in wry amusement. "Even spies can have a good time."

"It doesn't require magic for me to relax."

"Would you believe pixie dust?"

Kuryakin's response to the quip was to push Solo's hat down over Napoleon's tanned face.

Pushing the hat back into place the senior agent savored the last few hours of a perfect California afternoon. In the last half-day he'd come to appreciate their simple assignment. He suspected Illya welcomed it just as much, though there would be a blue mood over Moscow before Kuryakin would admit it.

A medieval parade coursed through Fantasyland, led by Merlin the magician dressed in flowing, glittering robes. Merlin selected a youngster from the audience and offered him an over-sized crown if the lad could pull the huge broadsword from the rugged stone set in the grass by the carousel. Several adults were asked to try the feat and all failed. Then the boy stood by the stone. Solo watched in interest as Merlin did a fancy song and dance about magic, then with his toe pushed a button hidden behind a bush. The sword was removed easily.

Merlin made a great show of the strength of the youth, crowned the boy, then went on his way. Solo smiled with mischief. 

"Bet you can't pull out the sword, tovarich."

"You're right, because I'm not going to try."

"Come on, haven't you always wanted to do that?"

Kuryakin scowled darkly. "No."

"I'll bet you that fried chicken dinner you wanted on main street if you do it."

That got his attention and Illya agreed, making it clear Solo would treat for a full dinner, with trimmings, if he succeeded. The deal made, Kuryakin studied the stone and sword and gave a few tentative pushes on the broad blade. He knew there was a trick but couldn't fathom the secret.

"Just pull it," Solo encouraged.

Half-heartedly Illya pulled at the sword. Then with more effort. Solo pushed the hidden button with his foot and snapped a picture as an amazed Kuryakin pulled the sword from the stone. Several onlookers clapped and a blushing Illya quickly replaced the sword, looking around quickly to see if anyone else had seen the trick. One of the spectators was Marty, who smiled with delight at the prank. Illya tried to melt into the crowd and grabbed his camera back with unnecessary force. 

"He's on the move again," Illya declared sharply shoved past Solo.

Solo delivered a mock salute and followed as Marty coursed his way through the thick crowd. He stopped to watch some of the rides, paused at shop windows, and bought some snacks. The telephoto lens came into play several times as Kuryakin snapped lucid close-ups of the gun runner, but never in any incriminating contacts.

Marty delayed for a long time at King Arthur's carousel and the debonair Solo visibly paled when it looked like the arms dealer would ride the carousel. It was his turn to follow Marty onto the next ride. When the dealer finally turned away Solo sighed in heart-felt relief.

During the wait, Solo had taken the opportunity to explain the various colored standards of Lancelot, Gawain, and Arthur. The shields now stood guard over Disneyland's modern tribute to the Round Table. The fanciful agent had even referred to the team as present day knights. Perhaps he was not far off the mark, Kuryakin ruminated. They fought various dragons, rescued maidens, entered their share of jousts, and crusaded for honor, justice and the odd bits of glory. Wasn't there a wise, legendary monarch at the head of their literal Round Table?

When Marty entered the small, exclusive gift shop at the entranceway of the castle, it was Kuryakin who claimed a staunch watch from the doorframe of the candy shop across the way. Solo shadowed the dealer into the overcrowded store.

The place was stuffed with curious and expensive gifts of every conceivable breed. Suits of armor cluttered the floor-space, shields with heraldry symbols flung on the walls, swords worthy of any crusade were crossed above the counters. It was a medieval marketplace of heroic symbols, courageous deeds of honor, and daring-do. The walls sang with the chants of a myriad of brave paladins who gloriously marched into myth and legend, and made an indelible mark on the pages of history for all heroes.

There was everything imaginable for the vicarious, pseudo-knights of latter days, and Solo surveyed the collection with amazed admiration. He kept a watchful eye on Marty, who had lingered to admire the artistry of the glass blower that plied delicate art on an exquisite Pegasus with fluted wings. Solo kept out of Marty's line of sight and wedged in next to a tall suit of armor.

Napoleon stared at the face visor. "What all the well-dressed crusaders are wearing this year," he concluded wryly.

A bright sparkle suddenly caught at the periphery of his vision and he edged around the armor to a magical little object, which dominated its space at a window shelf. It was a cut glass sphere whose angles and edges caught the twilight/gold sunshine and broke the rays into rainbow prisms that shot and refracted in every direction. From the center of the glass a stainless steel Excalibur skewered the heart of the crystal and reflected the sun's light in mecurical starpoints.

A quick glance toward the gun runner satisfied Solo that his mark was still in the clear. He then gave in to a mad and wild impulse. He seized the sword and stone paperweight from the shelf and presented it to the nearest salesgirl. There was great anticipation as he watched the gift carefully wrapped, and he fleetingly wondered if his partner would appreciate the significance of the object. Illya was not one to collect much of anything personal, but Solo was sure the Russian would like the unique letter-opener, And more importantly, he would appreciate the symbolism of the sword in the stone and the recollections it would bring of a brief sojourn through a magical kingdom.

***

Time passed slowly and Kuryakin had quickly tired of the lonely vigil in the stone archway. He was especially fatigued by the sixth or seventh rendition of _'When You Wish Upon A Star'_ by Jiminy Cricket. His American counterpart would have been surprised to know just how educated Kuryakin was about such trivia. Stoically he'd endured the curious stares of the salesgirls as he'd munched through a sack of candy as he blocked their doorway. Finally, he launched away from the stones and wended his way through the masses and across the walkway to the gift shop.

Marty stood close to the booth where a glass blower busily molded a miniature castle of detailed and intricate design. The Russian agent spotted Solo near a counter and wove through the crowd to arrive beside Napoleon with the minimum of jostle to self and camera. Kuryakin was amazed at the variety and vast amount of feudal curios, and the just plain curious gifts that were loaded into the little shop. Adult toys to live out the vicarious dreams of chivalry, he decided. Just the place for his quixotic friend.

In a rare moment of pause he was able to come up behind Solo with such stealth that he caught his partner completely unawares.

"Have any good fantasies lately?"

The taller agent jumped in surprise and spun around to face Kuryakin with a wry expression.

"Woolgathering, Napoleon?" he wondered innocuously, then noted the brightly wrapped gold bag with black castle designs. "Find a souvenir?"

The dark and debonair Solo quickly regained his usual level of composure and smiled. It was the Napoleon Solo-insufferably-pleased-with self-Cheshire-grin. "Just a little something I couldn't resist."

Kuryakin became suddenly wary. One had to watch Solo very carefully when Napoleon was obtusely mysterious. Illya decided to ignore the bait.

"You can go stand outside for a while and listen to Jiminy Cricket."

"What?"

"You'll figure it out."

This stake out duty was decidedly of more interest and his attention was divided between a watch on Marty, and studying the array of odd objects which filled the counters and shelves. There was much to catch his curious eyes among the symbols and accoutrements of days of chivalry gone by.

He was particularly attracted to a small statuette behind the glass display stand. It was a miniature knight in full armor wielding a broad sword and holding a shield with an impressive coat-of arms. Unaccountably, the pewter cavalier instantly reminded him of the gallant Napoleon

In an absurd rush of impulsiveness, Illya caught the nearest salesperson and asked for the statue. There were no qualms this time as he parted with the rather stiff sum and he quickly bought the symbolic knight.

Due to the uncertain nature of their chosen careers, they could never afford to be sentimental, or attach themselves to objects, or people. As a result they lead rather austere lifestyles, though Napoleon accrued all the creature comforts he could afford. Too much emphasis on personal artifacts intimated an inner glimpse of an individual. And, as Solo was wont to remind that one who traveled light traveled fast.

Kuryakin briefly wondered why he now decided to deviate from established norms, or to violate his personal code to never get too close, or too attached to anyone or anything. A spy's life, out of necessity, was transitory and superficial, yet he'd long ago broken his own law when he became close, fast friends with Solo.

However illogical, he wanted this gift as a tangible memory of a '_vacation'_, as well as the tangle or symbols it brought to mind -- a personal memento of images, memories, and experiences in their partnership when they had engaged in their own little crusades. It was a solidified representation of a very tangible magic -- the invincible bonds of a long and loyal friendship. Every once in a while even a secret agent needed an anchor to grasp onto, the solid support of a partner and friend. Maybe it made saving the world all the time worthwhile.

***

The tangerine sliver of a crescent moon glowed in a shimmery haze against the black backdrop of night sky. Only the brightest stars glimmered past the light of the orb. As Solo stared at the satellite he almost expected to see Mary Poppins and the ubiquitous umbrella float in silhouette across the moon's face.

"A Rubel for your thoughts."

A serene mantle of comfortable fatigue -- enough to ensure a welcome night's sleep -- rested on his being as he relaxed, legs outstretched on the sidewalk, arms rested on the back of the bench. Indistinct music floated on cool evening breeze, the stars glittered in the heavens. For the moment all was right and proper with Napoleon Solo and his world.

"Oh, this and that," he responded, his voice rich and resonant in a reflection of his deep level of tranquility.

Illya stifled a yawn and responded dryly. "Most profound, Mr. Solo. However, I had hoped for something a bit more constructive," he urged and popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

The fair UNCLE operative was languidly draped along the bench in twin fashion to his American counterpart. The occasional difference being Illya's arms folded across his chest, except when he munched on his snack.

Uncharacteristically, the efficient Russian hated to intrude reality into this harmonious moment. Few were the times they could savor a subdued, casual conversation, or enjoy an easy, companionable silence. But pragmatism won out over relaxation and comfort, and Kuryakin pulled a slip or paper from his pocket.

"What about this?"

Solo sighed and made a face filled with vexation as he reluctantly took possession or the paper but did not open it. "California is a long way from Buenos Aires."

The meticulous Kuryakin could have categorically stated how far -- geographically, economically, statistically -- in time, kilometers, mileage and language. He refrained from such banal statistics because he knew his partner spoke of the emotional distance they'd accrued between this time and space, and their last mission. Truly, they had been transported, temporarily, into a different world.

An attitude polarization had been achieved. In a few day's time they had moved from the bitter taste or failure, betrayal, and death, to the comfortable return to stabilized confidence. These two quiet, indolent days had mended the tattered nerves and wounded psyches that they would only obliquely admit to.

There was certainly nothing supernatural in the process, no mystical spell or enchantment from the Magic Kingdom responsible for the reversal. Simply the chance to regroup, relax, and regain their balance served to reestablish their equanimity.

"You're right, it's a long way."

Several moments of silence followed the reply before Solo slowly unfolded the document and cursorily scanned the shipping bill that contained evidence of a cargo of illegal arms. The bill was for computer parts on a dock in Los Angeles, but the agents knew the so-called parts were illegal weapons. Now they had the place, the numbers and the evidence to close in on Marty. All they lacked was the name of the buyer and the destination, but that information could be easily obtained.

The sly and crafty Russian agent had tailed Marty into the candy shop on Main Street. When the gun dealer opened his wallet to pay for a purchase, the sticky-fingered Kuryakin had lifted the oversized paper from the billfold. Illya's instincts had been, as usual, sharp and right on target.

The shipping bill was listlessly refolded and Solo handed it back to his partner. He sighed deeply, the picture of a man about to perform a necessary, but distasteful duty. He glanced at Illya in perplexity. "I don't know why, but I'm not looking forward to this."

Kuryakin shrugged in agreement. "I think there's always a sense of reluctance when we nab the little guy, when it's the bigger catch we want." He finished off the rest of his popcorn and looked critically at his companion. "Or maybe you're just being sentimental."

"Well, I guess we pick him up," solo scowled in defiance to his partner's comment. "What did you have in mind?"

"Me? I don't know," Illya responded, just as reluctant to offer a scenario as Napoleon was. "Maybe we should wait untill he leaves the park."

Solo shook his head. "I don't like the idea of taking him here, but at least we're pretty sure he's unarmed. In the dark, open parking lot he could try something dangerous."

"Marty?" Kuryakin asked incredulously.

Tendrils of stiff tension coursed along Solo's spine. He thought of the last mission where danger and death had come from an unsuspected quarter. Innocent people, colleagues, had been killed because of that oversight. He didn't want to repeat the same mistake.

"We can't be sure, can we?"

Kuryakin studied his partner and knew the edge of professionalism which had been in abeyance was back in instant sharpness. With it, a measure of taut nerves, a recollection of the last assignment and unsurprisingly, Illya regretted the abrupt return of reality into a brief interlude of easy repose.

"Let's make it as quiet and low-key as possible," Solo suggested.

"Agreed."

Both refrained to mention their reluctance was partially because the arrest of a criminal on Disneyland turf would seem like some kind or ethical violation. There was some unwritten code that said this place should be an undeclared DMZ, where children of any age could enjoy one free day of peace. They had enjoyed their brief respite, now it was time for a return to a harsh reality.

"I don't want to call in security."

"No!" Kuryakin agreed hastily. The thought of forced cooperation with security guards alarmed the punctilious operative. Local security people were little better than rent-a-cops, and an operation always went smoother when handled by trained professionals.

Solo tapped Illya on the knee, then slowly came to his feet. "Come on, let's get this over with."

Marty stood at a conveniently secluded spot at the side of the castle, near a wishing well. The agents cautiously stepped on either side of the dealer. Though they were unarmed, they were on guard for anything, confident they could count on their skill to handle the situation.

"Hello, Marty."

The tall, lean gun runner slowly turned to face Solo, then glanced to Kuryakin. "Evening, mates," he greeted amiably with a distinct Liverpualian accent. "I wondered when you'd make your move."

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged slightly wry glances. Obviously they had been spotted, and the clever Brit had never let on. Instinctive senses, accrued from many confrontations, told them Marty would go quietly, and they both found a grudging respect for the man.

"How long have you known we were following you?"

"You caught in the corner of my eye once too often in Frontierland."

Solo shot a ruefull glance at his partner.

"Good shootin', Davy!"

"So this is a cop, eh?"

"That it is," the dark-haired agent confirmed.

Marty seemed to accept it with resigned forbearance. "I don't suppose there's a chance of a deal, mates?"

Illya extracted the shipping bill from his pocket and waved the evidence in front of the dealer. There was regret in the Russian's smooth, accented voice. "Sorry, we've got the evidence on you, Marty."

The Brit nodded with calm, if disappointed acceptance. "Blasted bad luck is what it is. This was my last job, you know."

An exchanged look between UNCLE agents confirmed that they shared the same thoughts and were not devoid of sympathy for the dealer. Neither wanted to make the first official move to take the man into custody, so there was an uncomfortable silence.

Marty shifted under the burden of his numerous packages. "Thanks anyway for letting me finish my tour of the place. My kiddies'll love all these blasted presents."

Kuryakin looked blankly at him. "You mean you came here just to see Disneyland?"

Marty was incredulous at the question that seemed ridiculous in its obviousness. "Course, mate. I was planning on bringing the family next time, but today I just wanted to see the place myself. You know, like being a little nipper again."

There was an audible groan from Solo, who felt like a traitor someone the back. Marty was an international criminal, yet he felt like the worst kind of villain because he was about to arrest the man. His nimble mind started to search for some kind of loophole.

"Look, since you boys have been such chums about this, I'll give you a bit of a present."

There was a trace of suspicion in Kuryakin's eyes, and his tone was guarded. "What is that?"

"How'd you like the name of the buyer of these little goodies, and what he's going to use them for?"

"In exchange for what?" Napoleon wondered.

"Free of charge, lads. Just so you don't let out how you got the information."

Solo nodded in agreement. "Our lips are sealed." 

Illya supplied a scrap of paper and a pen and Marty quickly jotted down the details they needed. Names, dates, and places. The information surprised both UNCLE operatives and brought a low whistle of amazement from Solo. It would enable UNCLE to stop revolutionary movements on an international scale. Marty had given them more than they ever bargained for, and proved that the gun runner was just the tip of a very nasty iceberg.

The curious Russian was still not completely satisfied. "Why do this, Marty?"

The gun runner shrugged. "Like I said, mate, I'm out of the business." conspiratorially, he leaned close to Kuryakin. "Course, maybe your authorities will give me a break for the good deed." He glanced casually at Solo. "Maybe you could even look the other way -- say I slipped away in the crowd." He looked from one impassively silent partner to the other. "And you didn't actually catch me in a sale, or with the goods. You've just got a slip of paper. It could have shipped out of my wallet -- instead of being illegally obtained from my person," he finished meaningfully.

Illya glanced at his partner, unwilling to be the first to offer an opinion, though he already knew what Solo's reaction would be. After years of teamwork, lllya had learned to read the message in Solo's informative eyes, and now saw sympathetic agreement.

"He's got a point," the darker agent gestured toward Marty. 

Illya nodded ruefully. "Yes, he does." A mute signal was exchanged with their eyes, a silent agreement made between partners on the same line of communications.

Solo took the cue from his companion. "You're right, Marty," he confessed to the runner as he came to a decision. He pinned Marty with a resolute, stern stare. "We're going to turn our backs and let you walk away. But you better disappear from the face of the earth, and never handle another gun again for as long as you live." He suddenly grinned and shot a quick wink toward his partner. "Except of course, at a shooting gallery."

Marty was uncertain, as if he couldn't believe his good fortune, but the hesitation didn't last long. He smiled and gripped tighter to his packages. "Thanks, mates. I'll make sure you don't regret your generosity," he assured as he quickly turned and was swallowed by the stream of tourists on the nearby sidewalk.

Kuryakin's mouth twitched with amusement as he stared at his partner. "I knew you couldn't resist."

Solo's expression twisted into several varying expressions of perplexity and embarrassment. "Well, it seemed a good idea at the time. And you agreed. Sort of."

"He's a criminal, you know," the slight blond stated, as if it were a reminder to himself as well as to Solo.

"Ex-criminal," the dapper agent corrected, and brushed an errant lock of hair off his forehead. "It just didn't seem right to arrest him."

The Russian shook his head and a rueful smile played on his lips as he realized this was not unexpected. Philosophically speaking, a knight-errant could not be expected to only slay the odd dragon, rescue scads of distressed damsels, trick the cunning trolls, or champion countless causes. Beyond the ubiquitous crusades and jousts of honor there had to be something else. Occasionally, a knight was asked to show a quality of mercy to a vanquished foe, or admit to a chink or two in the tarnished armor. Compassion was something these two knights didn't often have the opportunity to extend, and it felt good to do it now.

Maybe, there was just the slightest bit of magic at work here. Perhaps, there really was a Neverland, a Magic Kingdom where dreams came true and they had just spent the day there.

"Second star on the left and straight on till morning."

"What?" a quizzical Solo wondered.

"Nevermind, Peter Pan, let's go home."

Solo was amused. "I think this place really got to you."

"Me? I'm waiting for your explanation of all this to Waverly! That ought to really require some magic!"

The awesome thought was obviously one Solo had not previously thought about. The prospect of said confrontation would keep Solo's overactive imagination occupied all the way back to New York!

****

THE END

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